The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country

by Joe Abercrombie

  He started up a set of spiral steps two at a time, panting with effort, legs burning as he climbed up towards the rooms where guests were entertained. Or fucked, depending how you looked at it. A panelled corridor met the stairway and a man came barrelling out of it just as Shivers got there, almost ran straight into him. They ended up staring into each other’s masks. One of the bastards with the polished breastplates. He clutched at Shivers’ shoulder with his free hand, showing his teeth, tried to pull his sword back for a thrust but got his elbow caught on the wall behind.

  Shivers butted him in the face on an instinct, felt the man’s nose crunch under his forehead. No room for the sword. Shivers chopped him in the hip with the edge of his shield, gave him a knee in the fruits that made him whoop, then swung him round and bundled him down the stairs, watched him flop over and over around the corner, sword clattering away. He kept going, upwards, not stopping for breath, starting to cough.

  He could hear more shouting behind him, crashing, screaming. ‘The king! Protect the king!’ He staggered on, one step at a time now, sword aching heavy in his hand, shield dangling from his limp arm. He wondered who was still alive. He wondered about the woman he’d killed in the courtyard, the hand he’d smashed in the doorway. He tottered into the hallway at the top of the stairs, wafting his shield in front of his face to try and clear the haze.

  There were bodies here, black shapes sprawled under the wide windows. Maybe she was dead. Anyone could’ve been dead. Everyone. He heard coughing. Smoke rolled around near the ceiling, pouring into the corridor over the tops of the doors. He squinted into it. A woman, bent over, bare arms stretched out in front of her, black hair hanging.

  Monza.

  He ran towards her, trying to hold his breath, keep down low under the smoke. He caught her round the waist, she grabbed his neck, snarling. She had blood spotted across her face, soot around her nose and her mouth.

  ‘Fire,’ she croaked at him.

  ‘Over here.’ He turned back the way he came, and stopped still.

  Down at the end of the corridor, two men with breastplates were getting to the top of the steps. One of them pointed at him.

  ‘Shit.’ He remembered the model. Cardotti’s backs onto the Eighth Canal. He lifted one boot and kicked the window wide. A long way down below, beyond the blowing smoke, water shifted, busy with the reflections of fire.

  ‘My own worst fucking enemy,’ he forced through his gritted teeth.

  ‘Ario’s dead,’ Monza drawled in his ear. Shivers dropped his sword, grabbed hold of her. ‘What’re you—’ He threw her out of the window, heard her choking shriek as she started falling. He tore his shield from his arm and flung it at the two men as they ran down the corridor towards him, climbed up on the window ledge and jumped.

  Smoke washed and billowed around him. The rushing air tore at his hair, his stinging eyes, his open mouth. He hit the water feet first and it dragged him down. Bubbles rushed in the blackness. The cold gripped him, almost forced him to suck in a breath of water. He hardly knew which way was up, flailing about, struck his head on something.

  A hand grabbed him under the jaw, pulled at it, his face burst into the night and he gasped in cold air and cold water. He was dragged along through the canal, choking on the smoke he’d breathed, on the water he’d breathed, on the stink of the rotten water he was breathing now. He thrashed and jerked, wheezing, gasping.

  ‘Still, you bastard!’

  A shadow fell across his face, his shoulder scraped on stone. He fished around and his hand closed on an old iron ring, enough to hold his head above the water while he coughed up a lungful of canal. Monza was pressed to him, treading water, arm around his back, holding him tight. Her quick, scared, desperate breathing and his own hissed out together, merged with the slapping of the water and echoed under the arch of a bridge.

  Beyond its black curve he could see the back of Cardotti’s House of Leisure, the fire shooting high into the sky above the buildings around it, flames crackling and roaring, showers of sparks fizzing and popping, ash and splinters flying, smoke pouring up in a black-brown cloud. Light flickered and danced on the water and across one half of Monza’s pale face – red, orange, yellow, the colours of fire.

  ‘Shit,’ he hissed, shivering at the cold, at the aching lag-end of battle, at what he’d done back there in the madness. He felt tears burning at his eyes. Couldn’t stop himself crying. He started to shake, to sob, only just managing to keep his grip on the ring. ‘Shit . . . shit . . . shit . . .’

  ‘Shhh.’ Monza’s hand clapped over his mouth. Footsteps snapped against the road above, shouted voices echoing back and forth. They shrank back together, pressing against the slimy stonework. ‘Shhh.’ Few hours ago he’d have given a lot to be pressed up against her like this. Somehow, right then, he didn’t feel much in the way of romance, though.

  ‘What happened?’ she whispered.

  Shivers couldn’t even look at her. ‘I’ve no fucking idea.’

  What Happened

  Nicomo Cosca, infamous soldier of fortune, skulked in the shadows and watched the warehouse. All seemed quiet, shutters dark in their rotting frames. No vengeful mob, no clamour of guards. His instincts told him simply to walk off into the night, and pay no further mind to Monzcarro Murcatto and her mad quest for vengeance. But he needed her money, and his instincts had never been worth a runny shit. He shrank back into the doorway as a woman in a mask ran down the lane, skirts held up, giggling. A man chased after her. ‘Come back! Kiss me, you bitch!’ Their footsteps clattered away.

  Cosca strutted across the street as if he owned it, into the alley behind the warehouse, then plastered himself to the wall. He sidled up to the back door. He slid the sword from his cane with a faint ring of steel, blade coldly glittering in the night. The knob turned, the door crept open. He eased his way through into the darkness—

  ‘Far enough.’ Metal kissed his neck. Cosca opened his hand and let the sword clatter to the boards.

  ‘I am undone.’

  ‘Cosca, that you?’ The blade came away. Vitari, pressed into the shadows behind the door.

  ‘Shylo, you changed? I much preferred the clothes you had at Cardotti’s. More . . . ladylike.’

  ‘Huh.’ She pushed past him and down the dark passageway. ‘That underwear, such as it was, was torture.’

  ‘I shall have to content myself with seeing it in my dreams.’

  ‘What happened at Cardotti’s?’

  ‘What happened?’ Cosca bent over stiffly and fished his sword up between two fingers. ‘I believe the word “bloodbath” would fit the circumstances. Then it caught fire. I must confess . . . I made a quick exit.’ He was, in truth, disgusted with himself for having fled and saved his own worthless skin. But the decided habits of a whole life, especially a wasted life, were hard to change. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’

  ‘The King of the Union happened.’

  ‘The what?’ Cosca remembered the man in white, with the mask like the rising sun. The man who had not looked very much like Foscar. ‘Aaaaaah. That would explain all the guards.’

  ‘What about your entertainers?’

  ‘Hugely expendable. None of them have shown their faces here?’

  Vitari shook her head. ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Then, I would guess, they are largely, if not entirely, expended. So it always is with mercenaries. Easily hired, even more easily discharged and never missed once they are gone.’

  Friendly sat in the darkened kitchen, hunched over the table, rolling his dice gently in the light from a single lamp. A heavy and extremely threatening cleaver gleamed on the wood beside it.

  Cosca came close, pointing to the dice. ‘Three and four, eh?’

  ‘Three and four.’

  ‘Seven. A most ordinary score.’

  ‘Average.’

  ‘May I?’

  Friendly looked sharply up at him. ‘Yes.’

  Cosca gathered the dice and gently rolled them
back. ‘Six. You win.’

  ‘That’s my problem.’

  ‘Really? Losing is mine. What happened? No trouble in the gaming hall?’

  ‘Some.’

  There was a long streak of half-dried blood across the convict’s neck, dark in the lamplight. ‘You’ve got something . . . just here,’ said Cosca.

  Friendly wiped it off, looked down at his red-brown fingertips with all the emotion of an empty sink. ‘Blood.’

  ‘Yes. A lot of blood, tonight.’ Now Cosca was back to something approaching safety, the giddy rush of danger was starting to recede, and all the old regrets crowded in behind it. His hands were shaking again. A drink, a drink, a drink. He wandered through the doorway into the warehouse.

  ‘Ah! The ringmaster for tonight’s circus of murder!’ Morveer leaned against the rail of the stairs, sneering down, Day not far behind, her dangling hands slowly peeling an orange.

  ‘Our poisoners! I’m sorry to see you made it out alive. What happened?’

  Morveer’s lip curled still further. ‘Our allotted role was to remove the guards on the top floor of the building. That we accomplished with absolute speed and secrecy. We were not asked to remain in the building thereafter. Indeed we were ordered not to. Our employer does not entirely trust us. She was concerned that there be no indiscriminate slaughter.’

  Cosca shrugged. ‘Slaughter, by its very definition, would not appear to discriminate.’

  ‘Either way, your responsibility is over. I doubt anyone will object if you take this, now.’

  Morveer flicked his wrist and something sparkled in the darkness. Cosca snatched it from the air on an instinct. A metal flask, liquid sloshing inside. Just like the one he used to carry. The one he sold . . . where was it now? That sweet union of cold metal and strong liquor lapped at his memory, brought the spit flooding into his dry mouth. A drink, a drink, a drink—

  He was halfway through unscrewing the cap before he stopped himself. ‘It would seem a sensible life lesson never to swallow gifts from poisoners.’

  ‘The only poison in there is the same kind you have been swallowing for years. The same kind you will never stop swallowing.’

  Cosca lifted the flask. ‘Cheers.’ He upended it and let the spirit inside spatter over the warehouse floor, then tossed it clattering away into a corner. He made sure he noted where it ended up, though, in case there was a trickle left inside. ‘No sign of our employer?’ he called to Morveer, ‘Or her Northern puppy?’

  ‘None. We should give some consideration to the possibility that there may never be any.’

  ‘He’s right.’ Vitari was a black shape in the lamplit doorway to the kitchen. ‘Chances are good they’re dead. What do we do then?’

  Day looked at her fingernails. ‘I, for one, will weep a river.’

  Morveer had other plans. ‘We should have a scheme for dividing such money as Murcatto has here—’

  ‘No,’ said Cosca, for some reason intensely irritated at the thought. ‘I say we wait.’

  ‘This place is not safe. One of the entertainers could have been captured by the authorities, could even now be divulging its location.’

  ‘Exciting, isn’t it? I say we wait.’

  ‘Wait if you please, but I—’

  Cosca whipped his knife out in one smooth motion. The blade whirred shining through the darkness and thumped, vibrating gently, into the wood no more than a foot or two from Morveer’s face. ‘A little gift of my own.’

  The poisoner raised one eyebrow at it. ‘I do not appreciate drunks throwing knives at me. What if your aim had been off?’

  Cosca grinned. ‘It was. We wait.’

  ‘For a man of notoriously fickle loyalties, I find your attachment to a woman who once betrayed you . . . perplexing.’

  ‘So do I. But I’ve always been an unpredictable bastard. Perhaps I’m changing my ways. Perhaps I’ve made a solemn vow to be sober, loyal and diligent in all my dealings from now on.’

  Vitari snorted. ‘That’ll be the day.’

  ‘And how long do we wait?’ demanded Morveer.

  ‘I suppose you’ll know when I say you can leave.’

  ‘And suppose . . . I choose . . . to leave before?’

  ‘You’re nothing like as clever as you think you are.’ Cosca held his eye. ‘But you’re cleverer than that.’

  ‘Everyone be calm,’ snarled Vitari, in the most uncalming voice imaginable.

  ‘I don’t take orders from you, you pickled remnant!’

  ‘Maybe I need to teach you how—’

  The warehouse door banged open and two figures burst through. Cosca whipped his sword from his stick, Vitari’s chain rattled, Day had produced a small flatbow from somewhere and levelled it at the doorway. But the new arrivals were not representatives of the authorities. They were none other than Shivers and Monza, both wet through, stained with dirt and soot and panting for breath as though they had been pursued through half the streets of Sipani. Perhaps they had.

  Cosca grinned. ‘You need only mention her name and up she springs! Master Morveer was just now discussing how we should divide your money if it turned out you were burned to a cinder in the shell of Cardotti’s.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ she croaked.

  Morveer gave Cosca a deadly glare. ‘I am by no means disappointed, I assure you. I have a vested interested in your survival to the tune of many thousands of scales. I was simply considering . . . a contingency.’

  ‘Best to be prepared,’ said Day, lowering the bow and sucking the juice from her orange.

  ‘Caution first, always.’

  Monza lurched across the warehouse floor, one bare foot dragging, jaw muscles clenched tight against evident pain. Her clothes, which had not left too much to the imagination in the first instance, were badly ripped. Cosca could see a long red scar up one thin thigh, more across her shoulder, down her forearm, pale and prickly with gooseflesh. Her right hand was a mottled, bony claw, pressed against her hip as though to keep it out of sight.

  He felt an unexpected stab of dismay at the sight of those marks of violence. Like seeing a painting one had always admired wilfully defaced. A painting one had secretly hoped to own, perhaps? Was that it? He shrugged his coat off and held it out to her as she came past him. She ignored it.

  ‘Do we gather you are less than satisfied with tonight’s endeavours?’ asked Morveer.

  ‘We got Ario. It could’ve been worse. I need some dry clothes. We leave Sipani right away.’ She limped up the steps, torn skirts dragging in the dust behind her, and shouldered past Morveer. Shivers swung the warehouse door shut and leaned against it, head back.

  ‘That is one stone-hearted bitch,’ muttered Vitari as she watched her go.

  Cosca pursed his lips. ‘I always said she had a devil in her. But of the two, her brother was the truly ruthless one.’

  ‘Huh.’ Vitari turned back into the kitchen. ‘It was a compliment.’

  Monza managed to shut the door and make it a few steps into her room before her insides clenched up as if she’d been punched in the guts. She retched so hard she could hardly breathe, a long string of bitter drool dangling from her lip and spattering against the boards.

  She shivered with revulsion, started trying to twist her way out of the whore’s clothes. Her flesh crept at the touch of them, her guts cramped at the rotten canal stink of them. Numb fingers wrestled with hooks and eyes, clawed at buttons and buckles. Gasping and grunting, she tore the damp rags off and flung them away.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror, in the light of the one lamp. Hunched like a beggar, shivering like a drunk, red scars standing out from white skin, black hair hanging lank and loose. A drowned corpse, standing. Just about.

  You’re a dream. A vision. The very Goddess of War!

  She was doubled over by another stab of sickness, stumbled to her chest and started dragging fresh clothes on with trembling hands. The shirt had been one of Benna’s. For a moment it was almost like having h
is arms around her. As close as she could ever get, now.

  She sat on the bed, her own arms clamped around herself, bare feet pressed together, rocking back and forth, willing the warmth to spread. Another rush of nausea dragged her up and had her spitting bile. Once it passed she shoved Benna’s shirt down behind her belt, bent to drag her boots on, grimacing at the cold aches through her legs.

  She delved her hands into the washbasin and threw cold water on her face, started to scrape away the traces of paint and powder, the smears of blood and soot, digging at her ears, at her hair, at her nose.

  ‘Monza!’ Cosca’s voice outside the door. ‘We have a distinguished visitor.’

  She pulled the leather glove back over her twisted joke of a hand, winced as she worked her bent fingers into it. She took a long, shuddering breath, then slid the Calvez out from under her mattress and into the clasp on her belt. It made her feel better just having it there. She pulled the door open.

  Carlot dan Eider stood in the middle of the warehouse floor, gold thread gleaming in her red coat, watching Monza as she came down the steps, trying not to limp, Cosca following after.

  ‘What in hell happened? Cardotti’s is still burning! The city’s in uproar!’

  ‘What happened?’ barked Monza. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened? His August fucking Majesty was where Foscar was supposed to be!’

  The black scab on Eider’s neck shifted as she swallowed. ‘Foscar wouldn’t go. He said he had a headache. So Ario took his brother-in-law along in his place.’

  ‘And he happened to bring a dozen Knights of the Body with him,’ said Cosca. ‘The king’s own bodyguards. As well as a far greater volume of guests than anyone anticipated. The results were not happy. For anyone.’